


Even Caged Birds Need Wings

by Lassarina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, M/M, Past Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: Clint Barton gave up on gymnasts years ago, but when he meets Bucky Barnes at the Olympic tryouts, he's drawn to him.  But Bucky has problems of his own, and the path to gold isn't easy.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was _supposed_ to be 500 words of fluff about that Sebastian Stan _Men's Health_ photoshoot and then, because I'm me, this happened.
> 
> Also, there's _a lot_ of complicated, messed-up stuff around modern high-level gymnastics competition. I've tried to steer clear of a lot of it and touch it very lightly when it is referenced at all.

Natasha sets a magazine down in front of him, open, and turns with her easy grace to sit tucked into the big chair to his left, picking up her book and opening it while she bites into an apple. Clint leans forward and the photo is a punch in the gut: a man holding an inverted iron cross on the rings, muscles standing out clearly against the light skin of his back. One arm is articulated metal; the light reflecting off it draws Clint's eye, and the shadows lead back to the thick musculature of his shoulders, long dark hair tied back, the clean vertical lines of his legs and perfectly pointed toes. Inset in the lower right corner is a portrait, and that hits even harder: deeply cleft chin, stubbled in dark brown, and eyes that look right through Clint.

It's not fair.

"Nat," he protests, feebly. She knows he gave up on gymnasts years ago.

He catches the hint of a curve to her lips before she crunches into the apple again, turning a page. He'd accuse her of doing it for show, but her focus is complete.

He tears his gaze away from the photos, skims the article. James Barnes--he knows that name. Barnes and Rogers are favorites to take home multiple gold medals this year if they make the team. Barnes is notable for competing with the prosthetic arm, while Rogers is the prototypical America's Boy.

Clint closes his eyes, then opens them again. He can't look away from that photo spread. The piece itself is trash: fluff about "overcoming," with that breathless bullshit inspiration porn that too many sportswriters engage in when they find someone whose body doesn't fit the standard model. But Barnes is compelling: there's a challenge in those eyes that says he knows exactly what the article is doing and he's there because he has to be, but they can't touch him and they can't fit him into their boxes, and damn if that isn't hotter than Clint wants it to be, because he _gave up on gymnasts._

Natasha turns another page. "They're holding the team tryouts for gymnastics at NYU, the same week as archery," she says.

He's not going to ask why she knows that. He's not going to talk. It's safer that way. Natasha knows him too well.

"You could bump into him," she continues.

"I'm going to find you a dancer," he threatens her.

"You will not," she says, and it's true; he respects the line she drew, even if she's never told him why.

He tries to focus on the book he was reading before Natasha interrupted him, but he keeps looking at the photo spread instead, and cursing her mentally. Her ears are too sharp for him to do it aloud, however quietly.

* * *

Three weeks later, he's in New York City five days earlier than he strictly speaking _needs_ to be for the tryouts, but fortunately Stark Industries, which is sponsoring him for the team, is a firm believer that their athletes need enough rest, and sent him up early. So it's definitely coincidence that he finds himself in the arena for the gymnastics tryouts. There's a space for other athletes to watch the tryouts, and with the aid of three coffees (his coach's advice be damned, it doesn't make him jumpy) he makes it early enough to watch.

It's surprisingly easy to slide back into the habits of watching, of knowing the moves and their point values. All the gymnasts at this level are elite, of course, but even within that stratum there are differences, and once upon a time, he knew how to see them all; it turns out he still does. He winces when Sam Wilson's grip on the high bar slips in his mixed-grip giant, but he successfully redirects it into a one-handed and Clint's jaw drops when he pulls off the following flip anyway. He's forgotten how good it is to watch people who are really good at this.

Rogers and Barnes are the last two in the rotation, and as good as Wilson was, they're astonishing. They fly around the bar, pulling off handstands, giants, pikes, and flips with the apparent ease that shows the years upon years of practice. He's mesmerized, and he stays that way through the next two rotations of floor and parallel bars. It's incredibly obvious that Barnes and Rogers are taking two of the four spots, and everybody else is fighting for the last two. There are some who might qualify for the extras, but the shape of the competition is apparent.

When the last scores are posted, it feels like coming out of a trance. Watching these competitions has always been like that. He checks the time on his phone and sees he has some of the afternoon left. Maybe he'll take in a museum. 

"Well, well. I thought you'd never watch one of these competitions again." The voice at his side is familiar, and he turns to see Bobbi standing there. She meets his gaze with challenge, as though she's unsure of her welcome.

"I thought so too," he says. "You look good." She does; she has healthy color in her cheeks, where the cheekbones no longer cut like blades, and even under her light top and jeans, he can see that the shape of her face doesn't lie: she's put on weight, and it sits comfortably on her.

Her smile is quick, and real. "Thanks," she says. It's awkward as hell, but it's the awkward tension of people who haven't talked in a long time, not the simmering tension of people who can't talk without fighting, which is good. "Watching a friend, or someone you want to make friends with?"

"Just curious," he says.

She laughs. "I know you better than that," she says. "I can introduce you, if you want."

He can't decide if it's sweet or kind of creepy that his ex-girlfriend is volunteering to introduce him to someone he'd like to ask out if he wasn't keenly aware he'd botch the job. "You're worse than Natasha."

It's just a flicker, but he catches it, and no, Bobbi being here and saying hi to him isn't an accident at all, is it? He mutters a curse and looks around. Natasha is, of course, nowhere to be seen; she's always safely away from the chaos she starts.

He feels her hand lightly on his arm. "Don't be too mad at her," she says. "For what it's worth, I think you two would get along great. Come on."

He's leaning toward creepy, definitely, but he lets her lead him out of the stands and down toward the locker rooms. "So what are you doing these days?" he asks her as she flashes a badge at the security folks that lets her lead him into the labyrinth under the arena reserved for competitors and their coaches.

"Health coach for the team," she says. "Trying to keep them from following the same path I did."

He whistles, low. It takes a special kind of steel to go back to what tore you down and fight the same problems every day for someone else. "Jesus, Bobbi."

"It's all right," she says, "but I appreciate the thought."

He looks for the right words, comes up empty. "If you need anything," he says, and then he doesn't know what else to say. He finishes with, "My number hasn't changed."

She squeezes his arm. "Thanks, Clint," she says, and he can hear the sincerity. Then she looks past him. "Hey, Bucky!" she calls.

He looks where she's looking and the overhead fluorescent lights glint off the metal arm as Barnes turns to face them. He's freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the terrible lighting, he's even hotter in person, somehow. He walks toward them with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

"Bucky?" Clint murmurs to her. She ignores him.

"Hi, Bobbi," Barnes says, and glances at Clint, curiosity in his eyes.

"Bucky, this is an old friend of mine, Clint Barton. Clint, James Barnes."

"Call me Bucky," he says as he extends his right hand for a shake.

Clint shakes his hand, feels the calluses from long hours on various apparatus. "Nice to meet you. And I'm sure you hear this from everyone, but you put on a hell of a show."

Bucky smiles, quick and light. "Doesn't get old to hear it." He glances down at Clint's hand as if noting Clint's own calluses. "How do you know Bobbi?"

"I shot an apple off her head once," Clint deadpans, and knows Bobbi has checked his competition schedule when she only sighs instead of punching his arm.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a story," he says.

Clint shrugs and grins. "I like doing trick shots."

"So you're a marksman?" Bucky asks.

"Archer," Clint corrects him, but without heat; it's a fair question. "Qualifiers for us start on Monday for the US team to the World Archery Championship."

"So you have some time to breathe before you have to compete," Bucky says.

"That's the idea." Clint shrugs. "It's been a long time since I watched gymnastics, but it seemed like as good a time as any."

Bucky gives him a curious look, but before he can ask, someone shouts his name from the other end fo the hall and Bucky flinches, everything about him going briefly flat and cool.

"That's my coach," he says. "I've gotta go." He hesitates a moment, runs a hand through his hair, then says, "Can I have your number?"

Clint stutters for a moment before he drags his brain back into place. "Yeah, sure." He takes the phone Bucky hands him and punches in his number fast, checks it to make sure he didn't screw up, hands it back. Bucky drops him a quick text that just says "hi" and he sends back the same, not knowing what else to do. Bucky smiles again, and turns to jog to the other end of the hall, where his coach is waiting.

Clint lets out a long, slow breath. Did that just actually happen?

Bobbi escorts him out of the athletes' area, but she doesn't tease him, just walks quietly with him until they're past security. "It's good to see you, Clint," she says, and her lips turn up into a smile. "I guess maybe I'll see you around more."

"Goddamn it, Bobbi," he says, and she laughs. He leaves the arena and heads back to his hotel room, where he proceeds to act like an absolute dumbass by checking his phone every five minutes even though there's nothing there to see.


	2. Chapter 2

He goes back the next day, of course, and he ignores Bobbi's knowing smile from several rows behind him as he takes his seat to watch. It's much like the day before: at the end of it, Bucky and Rogers have made the team by a mile, along with Sam Wilson, who really showed his skills on the vault and the parallel bars. Clint watches the entire competition, even though it's obvious who's going to be on the team, because he forgot how much he enjoyed this. He does pause to text Natasha, _I know what you did,_ and ignores her response of _Barton, you have no idea what I've done_ because it's alarmingly true.

His phone buzzes again as he's getting ready to leave, and this time it's from Bucky. _Coffee?_

 _Hell yeah,_ he texts back, because Clint lives on coffee.

 _I'll meet you at the west exit in 20,_ Bucky texts, and Clint almost punches the air in victory before he remembers Bobbi would see it. Acting like a dumbass in front of random strangers is one thing; doing it in front of an ex-girlfriend who can and will tell his roommate is another thing altogether.

He makes himself stay put, scrolling through shit on his phone, for fifteen minutes because it beats standing around, then waves to Bobbi as he leaves. She's moved up to a closer seat as they change the equipment for the women's competition, a notebook in her hand and her eyebrows furrowed in a frown. She waves absently, but she's focused in work mode. He makes his way through the arena to the west entrance. He arrives just a minute before Bucky does, and tries to tell himself he's not disappointed that Rogers is with him.

"Hey," Bucky greets him. "This is Steve. We've been friends forever. Steve, this is Clint."

"Nice to meet you." Steve Rogers smiles easily and shakes his hand. "Enjoy coffee." He turns and walks briskly toward the subway, and Clint tries not to look glad.

"Did you have a place in mind?" he asks. The article mentioned Bucky's from New York.

"If you don't mind a walk, yeah," Bucky says.

"I'm good with a walk," Clint says. Bucky leads the way.

For a summer day in New York, it's actually pretty nice. It's not too humid, and the temperature is in the low eighties, so the ten-block walk is pleasant. People give Bucky's arm some weird looks, which annoys Clint--his own hearing aids go mostly unremarked and that degree of invisibility is something he hates taking for granted.

The coffee shop is simply called "Neighborhood," and it's surprisingly spacious, with warm light and big, sink-into-them chairs grouped around comfortably-sized tables. It's well populated for a Sunday afternoon, but there are still chairs free.

Bucky tips his head back to read the menu, and there's a hint of longing on his face when he looks at the glass case of pastries, but he quietly orders a small coffee, black, and an apple. Clint orders his own large black coffee and skips a snack. The coffee is served in a mug almost as big as Clint's head, of which he approves. When they get their cups and turn around, there's a man behind them, middle-aged and saved head, and something in Bucky's shoulders tenses as they brush past him, but the guy doesn't react. Clint follows Bucky back to a table tucked in the back, as far away from the guy as they can get and shielded from him by a table of Deaf students who are arguing with flying hands about a presentation for their American Lit class. Clint doesn't remember The Great Gatsby well enough to have an opinion about which of them is right, but he is really amused that the Black girl who seems to be winning is of the opinion that their teacher's insistence on the symbolism of the color green is bullshit and she refuses to include it.

Bucky relaxes a little when he's out of view and takes a slow sip of his coffee, his eyelids fluttering shut. Those eyelashes are fundamentally not fair. Clint looks down at his coffee to keep from staring and takes his own sip. It's rich and bitter, exactly what he hoped for.

Bucky breathes out slowly, not quite a sigh, and Clint looks up. "That good?" He means it to be light, teasing, and somehow there's a deeper note in it. Shit.

Bucky's eyes snap open. "I don't get coffee very often." It's flat, defensive, and Clint could kick himself.

"Then I'm honored." That one comes out the way he intended, playful and easy, and one corner of Bucky's mouth kicks up. "I live on coffee," he admits.

"My coach does not approve of it." Bucky takes another sip, slowly, savoring. Clint forcibly drags his thought processes away from other kinds of savoring, with difficulty. "But I just made the national team for the Olympics, and this degree of rebellion is expected." There's a certain flatness to his tone, like the one Natasha's voice takes when she's definitely not talking about whatever her life was before she joined the National Ballet, and like he would when Natasha is like that, Clint checks out of the corner of his eye for the guy with the shaved head, who's sitting on the other side of the coffee shop. He's trying not to obviously look through the Deaf girls' conversation, but one of them has pushed her chair back and is _really_ arguing her point, her entire body engaged in the ferocity of her dislike for Gatsby, with which Clint can't really disagree. It makes it hard for him to see the guy too, but since that works both ways, he'll take it.

"You're amazing," Clint says honestly. "I mean, I'm sure you hear that all the time, but--wow."

The tips of Bucky's ears turn pink, and Clint grins. "Were you a gymnast before you went into archery?" Bucky asks. "Bobbi was remarkably close-lipped about you, which is unusual for her."

Clint reminds himself to thank her later; she could have chosen to be much more difficult. "No," he says, "but I've spent some time watching." Jesus, Barton, way to be a creep. "From hanging around with Bobbi, and others." Is that better? He's going to stop digging. "I've always been an archer." That's safer ground.

Bucky's eyes fall to his hands, then travel up his arms. Clint watches him catalog the calluses on his hands, the tan lines where his guard shields his left arm from the sun, and the muscles from wielding his bow. It's surprisingly intimate, but no more so than him reading that article, he supposes. He tries not to think about the photos. It feels intrusive. And he doesn't like the advantage it gives him. "My roommate gave me the magazine article about you," he says.

Bucky sighs and looks down at his coffee. "Seems like everybody's seen that." He twists the stem off of the apple and takes a bite, muscles in his jaw working, and keeps his eyes fixed on the table.

"Well," Clint says, "you look really good in the photos." He waits a moment while Bucky looks up at him, surprise clear in his eyes, before he adds, "But better in real life."

Bucky clears his throat and looks back down at the coffee. "USA Gymnastics wanted me to do the article." There's a defiance in that. "Drum up more interest for the qualifiers, and make them look better after everything."

 _Everything_ covers a lot of ground; if it were Clint, he'd feel no need to polish their image, but then again, it's not _his_ dream at stake, so he nods. "Was it interesting?" When Bucky arches an eyebrow, he shrugs. "They don't interview archers. We don't defy death with every jump."

Bucky scoffs a little, and bites into the apple again, thinking it over while he chews. Clint looks away to let him think, checking the rest of the coffeehouse.

"He used my words, but it's not my story," Bucky says at last. "He was really interested in talking about how USAG was giving me the opportunity to 'overcome.'" The scorn that drops off the word is tangible.

"They aren't giving you _shit._ " Clint's own vehemence startles him, and startles Bucky too, but damn it, that's just insulting. "And fuck the entire idea of overcoming." He has to ratchet it down; that hits close to home, in a way he's only ever admitted to Natasha and Bobbi, and he makes himself stop, and take a deep breath. "Sorry," he says, calmer, through a slow and careful breath. "I really hate people who make inspiration porn out of other people's stories, and I don't usually go for that much intensity on a first date." He cracks a smile, hopes it comes off as light as he wants it to. "I really wanted to ask you out again."

Bucky's answering smile is cautious, but it looks real. He pauses a moment before he answers. "You don't have to put that in past tense," he says, and Clint has to strain to hear him, but he's used to lip reading, and it makes his heart beat hard and fast, and a smile takes over his face without his permission.

"So, uh, now that I've been embarrassingly intense about way too many things," he says, "what do you want to talk about?"

"We could aggressively interrogate each other's taste in movies," Bucky suggests. "That's something people do on a first date, right?" His lips curl up when he says "first date," and it makes a little spark of warmth curl somewhere in Clint's chest. This feels weirdly intense for a first date, and he probably should _aggressively interrogate_ that, but he doesn't want to, so he doesn't. He shoves it aside.

"Right, so you can agree on where to go for the second," Clint says. He leans forward, makes his face as serious as he can. "I can do anything but rom-coms."

Bucky's face is serious too, but humor lurks in the corners of his eyes. "Even foreign-language art films that are only subtitles and shadowed shots of Paris at night?"

"Even that." Clint grins. "My roommate might murder me if we go to the new one about the Paris ballet though. She claimed dibs."

Bucky laughs a little. "All right." He sips his coffee, and a smile clings to his lips like the taste it leaves behind. Clint wants to taste both. And that's probably the dumbest thing he's thought today. "No ballet, then."

"Anything else is fair game, though, after the qualifiers." Clint picks up his coffee to keep more words from coming out. It's not that he can't talk through coffee, but it lowers the odds.

"You live up here?" Bucky asks him.

"No, in DC," Clint says. "I'm here for the archery trials, but I came up early to watch the gymnastics competition."

Something flickers behind Bucky's eyes. He looks down at his coffee and half-eaten apple, then looks back up, and the openness, the smile is gone. Clint wonders what he said wrong. "That article, huh?"

Choosing his words carefully is so far from Clint's strong suit it might as well be overseas, but he gives it a try. "I won't deny it made me curious, and I also won't deny that when I ran into Bobbi--whom I've known a long time--I jumped when she offered to introduce us, because I'll be honest, you're really good looking, and I wanted a chance to get to know you. I wasn't expecting this, but so far it's been pretty great." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "If that's a problem, if it's not okay, then I'll back off. I'm not gonna chase someone who doesn't want my company." Fuck, expressing himself in words is hard.

Bucky's expression eases a little, though the smile doesn't come back. He sits back in his chair, his prosthetic arm making a faint sound when it meets wood, and nods. It seems to take him a long moment to find his own words. "I realize that sounded like an accusation," he says slowly. "I've had problems before with people who approach me either with one of several fetishes or because..." He trails off, and his gaze cuts sideways, toward the guy with the shaved head. So he _does_ think that guy is watching them. He thinks about it for a moment. "My coach does not approve of extracurricular activities," he says at last, "and with the Olympics coming up, it is not a good time to try his patience."

Clint swallows the disappointment. "I get it."

If the regret on Bucky's face is an act, he's got a hell of a second career waiting in Hollywood. "I won't ask you to wait til after the Games," he says.

Clint nods. "I understand," he says. Not being asked is fine; it's not like anyone's beating down his door anyway. He thinks about it. "How does your coach feel about sexy texts?"

Surprise lights up those gray eyes, a moment before a smile that Bucky dampens too fast. "He doesn't have access to my phone."

"How do _you_ feel about sexy texts?"

"That depends entirely on who's sending them." That smile is back. "Don't send pictures."

"Words only. Got it." It would have to be the way he's worst at expressing himself, but Clint can work with that. He finishes his coffee as Bucky finishes his apple. "Anything I can do before I leave to make this work better for you with your coach?"

"Look annoyed when you go." Bucky puts on a bored, distant expression that stings more than Clint expects. "That way he will think I have brushed you off."

That's not hard. Clint understands being focused on your sport and the Games, but even Natasha's coaches at the ballet have realistic expectations of their dancers that include "there is life outside this building" despite their speeches to the contrary. He shoves his chair back from the table hard enough to make a noise and sees Bucky's flesh hand clench, even though he has to be expecting it. The mental note that causes makes Clint's angry expression not even an act as he stomps past their observer and out of Neighborhood. He's not so annoyed he doesn't see the guy sending a text as he goes past, and that just makes him angrier.

On the subway on his way back to the hotel, he reminds himself that one date is not enough to go looking up Bucky's coach, even if he's starting to get a really bad feeling about this.


End file.
